


Eyewitness

by joewalkerdies



Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: I am not sorry, angst :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24999481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joewalkerdies/pseuds/joewalkerdies
Summary: In which Paul watches.
Relationships: Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Eyewitness

There was a certain kind of static in the air. A ringing in his ears, and a dull, throbbing pain somewhere in his skull. He couldn’t place it.

The surface he was on was cool and slick. He felt it, smooth, against his palms.

His thoughts collided together like a pile-up on a highway— he couldn’t form any coherent sentence or idea in his mind. All memory was hazy. Memory. What did he remember?

Currently, he was laying down. That much he knew. Cool, slick, smooth. Where was he?

He opened his eyes. They couldn’t come into focus— his world was hazy. His thoughts were hazy. His memories were hazy. All sound was static, sharp and dull all at once. Something was being said— he couldn’t place it. Everything felt far away. Where was he?

He blinked.

He was inside of a glass box, completely clear and free of any blemishes. The world outside the box was an infinite, pure white void. How did he get here? He rubbed at his temple to make the static go away. The static, the ringing— though the world was blank, his senses were on overdrive. It was everything and nothing at once. What did he—

Remember.

He squinted, and in his mind’s eye, he saw it. Blue. Blue— the— the light. The blue— light. Blue light, from the—- from—-

From the meteor.

The meteor.

He went— he told her, told who? Told her he’d go to the meteor, to, to stop it. Stop it. Stop what? Tell who, stop what? Stop the— the i— the inf—-? 

The infection. The apotheosis. He remembered now.

He told her he’d stop it. How did he get here? Did he do it? How did he get here, where WAS here, who did he tell—

Emma. 

EMMA! 

He opened his mouth to speak her name, her name, her. But he heard it elsewhere, spoken for him, and yet— it was his voice. Coming from somewhere, elsewhere, not his own lips. The static sound around him took form. He noticed a bright, bright light, just beyond his field of vision— his head snapped in its direction.

_“Emma, I’m sorry.... you lost.......”_

_What?_

He saw Emma. He heard himself, though it was far away, like sound from an old radio, where the station was almost out of range and not fully there. But, clear as day— it was him. Why was it him?

_“Paul, you’re scaring me,”_ he heard. It was her. But— he wasn’t there. She was talking to him, but he wasn’t there. He was here.

“Emma, what’s going on,” he asked, instinctively crawling closer to the light. He banged into the wall of the box— he pressed his palms against it, feeling a shiver down his spine. It was cold.

_“Emma, I’m sorry, you lost your way....”_ He heard, once again. Singing. Why would he— one, he hated singing, and two, he sure as hell couldn’t sing THAT well. But, it was him. Why would he— HOW would he—-

It hit him. A horrible, horrible light-switch clicked in his brain. A switch to a basement, or a garage, filled with secrets and horrors you tuck away, hoping to forget them and yet, you still find them, covered with cobwebs.

He’d failed. He’d been infected.

“NO!” He cried, banging his fists against the glass. The world was made hazy once more— tears in his eyes, blocking his vision.

The fear in her eyes.......

The fear _he_ caused.......

His heart shattered, the fragile, sharp pieces spilling out and stabbing all of his other vital organs. Pain.

“No,” he wailed once more, watching with petrified eyes as he chased her, he terrorized her, he—-

He was going to kill her.

He was going to kill her, strip her life away, just like his had been. Just like all of his friends’ had been, but this time, it was hers. It was her.

He couldn’t hold it back anymore. The sobs racked his body, his shoulders heaving, bile rising in his throat. Hot, salty tears spilled down his cheeks, down, down, down. The sound was almost loud enough to cover the sound of the song—

He _almost_ didn’t hear the horrible word, sung by him, sung by others, sung to her. Inevitable.

He said it was inevitable. He sang that it was inevitable, that this was always what was to happen. There was no stopping it. Emma, his Emma, was always planned to die. That’s the way the script of life was written. Signed off by the writers and directors, ready for production. Ready to take the stage.

Was it inevitable?

Was it?

His clammy hands dragged down, down the glass as he sunk to the floor. He’d failed. _He_ failed. And then, he killed her. He couldn’t bear to watch her final moments, but he heard her screams. Each one sent a cataclysmic pain, a bolt of lightning to his chest. 

‘Emma, I’m sorry.’

He closed his eyes.


End file.
